


Confession, Absolution, Satisfaction

by LittleMousling



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: BDSM, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Guilt Kink, Communication, Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Knowing your partner really well, Light Masochism, Love, Otk spanking, Punishment, Spanking, Trust, gentle oral sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Jon and Emily have some rules that are meant to be broken.
Relationships: Emily Black Favreau/Jon Favreau
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Confession, Absolution, Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadtomato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadtomato/gifts).

> This is for the wonderful [Sadtomato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadtomato/pseuds/sadtomato), who is always very encouraging and deserves some fic!
> 
> Also, when my nonreligious ass googled it, I learned that the sacrament is "contrition, confession, absolution and satisfaction (penance)," which was too good not to use as a title.

“Jon.”

Emily’s voice startles him; he’s been leaning back in his desk chair, feet up, and he nearly topples over. It’s less the surprise that Emily’s behind him—she’s been puttering around most of the morning—but the trembling suddenness of being caught, when he knew it was coming. When the tension has been building all morning.

He swallows, sets his phone down, and takes his feet off the desk to turn around towards her. 

She’s in a sundress, barefoot, braless. She might look sweet and relaxed, if not for the very firm warning look on her face. 

Well—it’s not a warning anymore. It’s definitely too late for that. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, already knowing it won’t change the result. Already feeling himself getting hard, despite and because of the adrenaline shivers. “It was just that they were going after Dan, and—”

Emily crosses her arms. “You didn’t stop at defending Dan, did you?”

“No,” Jon admits.

“You got defensive and just kept going.”

“Yes.” He scrubs his damp palms on his shorts; Emily’s gaze doesn’t leave his face. It’s exhilarating and a little terrifying to watch her focus on him like this. 

“So—” She lets it hang in the air, because this, more than anything else, is the real punishment. This is the part that does make him deeply regret getting into it with those fucking blue check marks all morning.

He can’t look at her while he says it, can’t look at anything. He squeezes his eyes shut and digs his fingernails into his palm and says, “So I—I broke the rules, and I need to be—punished.” His face is burning hot, and he knows before she says anything that he didn’t say it loudly enough, that he’s going to have to do it again. 

“Sometimes I think you do that on purpose,” Emily says. She’s closer, her voice just above him. “Say it again. More specific this time.”

“I broke the rules by getting into stupid twitter fights,” he says. That part isn’t so bad; the clarity of confession, the admission of guilt. The next part is impossible. “So I—I need—I need you to punish me. Please.” His whole body hums with it. He’s always gotten shaky, filled with adrenaline, during long twitter fights; now he gets filled with adrenaline and arousal and shame and excitement, all bundled together. Wanting it and not wanting it, and not wanting to want it. 

“How?” Emily says. She’s so close now her breath is on his ear, close behind him. He still can’t open his eyes, even knowing she’s out of sight. 

“With—however you—”

“No.”

He swallows, shakes his head. He’s not refusing so much as buying time, buying brain space, and she lets him have it. “You—I need you to spank me,” he says. He cycles through the options in his brain, but he knows already, has been thinking about it since he hit send on the first below-the-belt reply. Before she can prompt him, he adds, hissed between his teeth, “With your hand.” 

“Go get ready,” Emily says, and he wants more than that, wants so much for her to tell him he did a good job asking, but that comes later. He hasn’t earned it yet. 

He opens his eyes, staring at the rug, at his path towards the bedroom. His knees almost give out as he gets up, but Emily’s there, already grabbing his elbow to steady him. She’s quiet, and he doesn’t say anything, just stumbles out, already pulling his shirt off over his head. 

They have a plan: they have specifics. Rules. Rules for him, because he craves them; Emily would cheerfully spank him whenever she feels like it, or if he asked nicely, but that doesn’t give him the same cathartic release. It doesn’t feel like stepping out of the confessional into the too-bright nave, ready to work through his assigned punishment until he’s cleansed from sin. 

Rule: he folds his clothes and sets them on the chair next to the dresser. 

Rule: he waits on the upholstered bench at the foot of their bed. 

Rule: he waits on his knees, with his elbows on the bed. He’s allowed to fold his head into his forearms if he’s too embarrassed, until she tells him not to.

He arranges himself, feeling exposed, waiting for Emily to come through the door. Sometimes she makes him wait long minutes—it always feels endlessly longer than it really is, and she knows it. Sometimes she’s close behind him, telling him to hurry up.

Today’s a waiting day. He feels both absurd and obscene like this, knees shoulder-width apart on the firm leather of the bench. She won’t spank him here, probably; this is where they play with other things. Toys. Things he loves, and can’t name out loud, and loves maybe because he finds it so embarrassing just to say the names. 

She’ll come in, and see him like this, so hard his cock’s fighting gravity to curve up to his belly, and she’ll tell him where she wants him, and she’ll make him ask her for it again. Sometimes the physical punishment is only an accompaniment to that, to having to repeat himself, to having to ask for it. The worst part, and the part he needs the most. 

She’ll be wearing that little dress—god, he loves LA, where his wife spends half of her time in little, flimsy dresses and giggles when he stands behind her and slides his hands up into them. She’ll be wearing that little dress, and when she puts him over her knee, he’ll be pressed against her bare thighs, his cock dragging against her skin. She’ll be able to feel how much he wants it, hard and leaking for her to spank him. 

Jon’s breathing harder now, adrenaline and arousal making his whole body shiver. He hate-loves the waiting. He love-hates the waiting. He wants Emily to just appear, please, so he can start being forgiven. 

Just the word makes him rock forward, trying to get some kind of friction. God. He’s pretty sure most of the guys he went to Catholic school don’t get off on punishment and forgiveness, the way he does. Then again, he’s definitely never asked. 

He shivers again, squeezing his hands into fists above his head to fight off the urge to touch himself, and then Emily’s there, padding in on bare feet. 

“Stay there,” Emily tells him, and he keeps his face in the coverlet, trying to forget how exposed he is to her gaze. She doesn’t touch him, yet, but he can feel the air moving as she walks around, surveying him from various angles. 

He has the best wife in the whole fucking world.

She’s off to his left when she speaks next. “Okay. Come here for your punishment now.” It takes him a moment to sort his limbs out, muscles not obeying him promptly. Crawling backwards off the bench onto the floor should be easy, but right now his knees aren’t trustworthy; they want to drop him at her feet. He wants to drop at her feet.

He stands up, instead, and steps around the bed to where she’s settled herself, feet spread for balance, waiting for him. “We don’t have to,” he offers, because sometimes it feels important, to make sure she knows that just because he got into a twitter fight doesn’t mean they have to play this game, or that they have to do it right now. They’ve talked about that; they set it up so Emily comes to him, and not the other way around. She did that today, but he still feels the need to say it. 

“We’re going to, though,” she tells him. “Over my lap, now.” 

Emily gets off on it, is the other thing. Emily gets so fucking wet for having Jon at her mercy. Over her knees, he sometimes can’t smell anything but her arousal, so that when he goes down on her, memories of being spanked flash through his head unbidden. 

He crosses past her so that he can lay across her thighs from the right side, her right hand at his ass. It’s his job to make it easy for her to punish him. He has to hold himself up, touching but not resting on her lap, which is its own perfect torture; instead of being able to pin his cock securely against her thigh, he moves with every hit. He’s come just from that, from the spanking and the rubbing, more than once. More than once, she’s told him he needs a whole new punishment for that. 

Emily strokes him from the nape of his neck down his back, curving down his ass, long smooth strokes of her hand like she’s steadying a horse. He takes deep breaths, trying to relax, trying to give her control. 

She hits him once, barely anything, but it’s out of nowhere enough to make him startle forward, cock rubbing against her leg. “Hold still,” she tells him. Neither of them need her to say it, but he likes to hear it, anyway. 

He does his best to hold still as Emily starts warming him up, fast and easy, dappling hits across his ass and his upper thighs. This part is always easy, except in the way it makes him crave more and harder. Except in the way he’s bad at taking _easy_ when he wants, more than anything, to be punished. 

Her palm landing on his ass, even soft like this, is noisy. It fills up the quiet of the bedroom with the obscene sound of flesh smacking, and this is the risk period for him, when it doesn’t hurt enough to draw focus off his cock, when it feels good and sexy more than anything else. The only thing keeping him from coming is that he wants to be good, now; he wants to behave and take his punishment and feel entirely released from guilt, after. It’s never as good if he comes first, so he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his hips as still as he can, bracing himself. 

“You’re doing fine,” Emily tells him, not stopping. “But this isn’t the punishment you deserve, is it? You need a lot more than this.” 

He does. He needs so much more than this. His ass feels slightly warmed, but nothing else sticks between blows, just the anticipation: no soreness, no need to cringe away from her hand. Yet. 

“Out loud, Jon,” Emily adds, and he blinks up to speed, realizing he never answered her.

“Yes! Yes, I need more. Yes.” It’s easier right now, face down, filled with arousal and starting to feel that other thing, that feeling-without-thinking thing. That thing that lets him lose his shame, sometimes, and beg for what he needs. 

“Because you broke the rule,” she encourages, and he tucks his head in further and says, “Because I broke the rules, and because the—because I need to be punished.” 

It must be good enough, as a response, because Emily’s answer is non-verbal: a sharp, serious smack to the center of his ass, right where it feels the most intense. Not quite the most painful, definitely not the most pleasurable, just intense, shuddering through his whole body. 

She doesn’t stop there, either; she’s on a new roll, not quite as fast but much harder now she’s warmed him up. “God,” Jon grunts, and tightens himself against it, thighs taut. He curls his back to lift his head up, giving himself a break so he doesn’t get light-headed, and Emily’s spare hand comes off his back for a moment to pet through his hair. It’s the first touch that makes him realize he’s sweating: suddenly he can feel the cool place where her warm hand was, and the heat of his whole body. 

Emily tightens her grip in his hair, just long enough for him to want much more of that. Just enough to make him realize he can smell her, wet and wanting him, and then she’s holding him steady with a hand on his back again, focused on spanking him.

He can’t help but focus there, too, now that it’s getting harder. Every hit _hurts_, now. It’s not too much to bear, but building close to that. They do fully sexual spankings, too—sometimes he even spanks her, when she wants him to—but those are so different from this. She’d have stopped half a dozen times by now to tease him, scratching the sore skin with her fingernails or a hairbrush or whatever’s close to hand, maybe rubbing him with cold water or ice or soft fabric. She’d be hitting him differently, low and inside like a baseball pitcher, just where it reverberates through his lower belly and his cock. 

This isn’t to turn him on, though he’s hard as a rock. This is to make him give in, and he’s fucking close. Every spank now hurts like he’s not sure he can bear it, Emily landing them one on top of another. She could spread it out; she’s choosing to make it hard on him. Because he deserves punishment. Because he’s taking his punishment, and then—and then—

“I can’t,” he says, and hears the rasp in his voice even before he feels it, throat tight with tears he can’t quite release. “Please, I can’t.” 

“You can,” she says, and her voice is tight too. He knew she’d say that; he needs her to say that, and it was the hardest thing they figured out together. And the best. Right now the worst, the worst, because he can’t take it and his throat is so tight that it feels like waking up from a nightmare, feels like writing speeches about things he wishes he didn’t even know, feels like the worst kind of silent-scream frustration. 

Jon gulps air, and gasps, and feels the tears escaping him, gravity pulling them right to the rug, to splash on and around Emily’s bare foot. Maybe she feels it, because she slows up, moving her hand to new and less sore spots, starting to ease him down. She never just stops, except the times he’s rolled away, really and truly needing a break and unable to voice it. They have a safeword that he’s never been able to use, but has never needed; the language of his body has always been enough, even if it sometimes lands him with an _oomph_ on the rug. 

She slows, and he cries, and can’t stop crying. Her other hand rubs up and down his back, encouraging him to breathe instead of gasp. He can’t, yet. He can barely get air in at all, and he can hear himself now in a way his brain was filtering out before: the choking, rasping sounds he’s making, the sobs. 

Emily’s got both hands on his back now; he doesn’t even know when she stopped spanking him. She curls one hand around his ribs and tugs, encouraging him to come up onto the bed with her. He feels too weak to move, but too weak to keep bracing like this, so he manages it, crawling up after her and planting his face in her side, her hands in his hair. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” she tells him. “That’s it, you were so good, you’re so good now. You took your punishment so well, baby, you’re okay now. I forgive you, okay?” He cries harder, getting his hand between them to run under his nose, knuckle to forearm. He’s starting to be able to breathe again, a little, and now he can feel the lightness coming, the catharsis. He sighs air in and feels the freshness of it in his whole body. 

“Thank you,” he tells her, kissing her side through her thin dress. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Thank me better,” she says, and he lost his erection somewhere in the middle there, but it’s coming back in a rush as he lifts himself on shaky arms to lean up and kiss her mouth, and then her throat, and then the low neckline of her dress. He feels so fucking good, like the best parts of finishing a hard workout combined with the high of getting wine-drunk with his favorite people. 

Emily’s his favorite people. “You’re my favorite,” he tells her. “I love you. Thank you.” He kisses her through the dress, lingering on one nipple and then the other as they harden. He doesn’t know if he wants her to take the dress off or keep it on; he wants whatever she wants, mostly. 

He crawls backward to kiss her belly through the cotton, hissing as the movement pulls at the sore skin of his ass. “Hurts?” Emily asks, and there’s a tone in her voice that gets him all the rest of the way to hard, to _desperate_.

“Hurts so much,” he agrees, because if he tucked his knees to his chest right now it would ache like nobody’s business, would feel painful and delicious. “You really worked me over.”

“I did,” she agrees. “And I don’t think I’m done, either.” 

He stutters out an “Okay,” trying to get it out immediately, tripping over his own words. Wanting whatever she wants to give him. 

“I’m just trying to decide how it should hurt,” she says, and puts a hand back in his hair, tugging for real this time, holding on. “I could put you on your back and sit on your face—” He nods, the motion pulling against her grip. “—or I could put you on your knees so your heels dig in—”

He makes a noise he can’t quite stop. “Yeah,” Emily says, grinning down towards him. “I think that one’s the winner, too. Get on the rug.” 

Jon scrambles, finding it suddenly much easier to move, knees and elbows obeying him now. Folding hurts; sitting his ass down on his heels hurts like hell, enough to make him yelp, but he grits his teeth and does it. Once he’s settled, it’s the kind of pain that Emily helped him learn he loves, the kind like when she digs her finger into a bruise. The kind that makes him want more of that almost more than he wants her to touch his cock. 

Emily curls gracefully up to a kneel on the bed and pulls her dress up to her ribcage so she can sit down at the edge, making room for him. She’s wearing panties with little cartoon dachshunds on them, and a little bow at the front, and when she spreads her thighs wide around him, he can see that they’re soaked through. “Jesus,” he mumbles, turning his face into her thigh to give himself a second to adjust. She smells incredible, and he shuts his eyes and breathes her in, nuzzling closer until she tells him to wait. 

She always tells him to wait. Emily could teach the Spanish Inquisition some things about torture. He blinks his eyes open and looks up at her. She’s looking back at him, eyes dark, lips parted. She looks incredible. 

Emily says, “I know you think the puppy eyes work on me, but—” and laughs, and he turns his face into her thigh again to muffle his own laugh. “All right,” she tells him. “C’mere. Thank me already.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He kisses in and up, sweeping his hands up under her thighs and encouraging her to lie back so he can peel the panties off her hips easily. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs, and she laughs again and hooks one heel around his shoulder, opening up for him. 

“I’m so—ah, Jesus, just like that—so hot for your ass, baby. Getting to rough you up. Ah, like that, yeah, _yes_.” 

He’s not doing anything special, just licking into her, letting himself taste. Letting himself enjoy the way she feels inside. It’s easy to overload Emily with sensation, and Jon’s had to learn to slow down, as much as he wants to just shove his face into her pussy and go to town. Instead, he starts easy, building up, not going anywhere near her clit until he’s sure she’s getting closer. It means he can’t really finger her, practically speaking—his face is in the way—but he can squeeze her ass and let his fingertips tease the creases where it meets her thighs.

“God, god,” Emily groans. “Want you to—dig your heels in so it hurts, okay? Does it hurt?”

He’d been distracted enough to almost forget, but yeah, it fucking hurts. He squirms, feeling it, and even if he’d wanted to hold back the noises, he couldn’t. “Good, that’s—god, that’s good,” Emily tells him. “Fucking c’mere, don’t stop.” She runs a hand down her belly and gets her own fingertip on her clit, just lightly, and he tilts his head to stay out of her way, sucking at the soft skin of her pussy. 

Emily’s murmuring to him or to herself, barely audible. “Yeah, yeah—just like that—you’re so—gonna ride you after, okay? Gonna, gonna get you on your back under me.” Jesus, he wants that. 

Emily’s fingertip is bumping his cheek, getting serious now. “Can I?” he asks, and licks further up, offering. She groans, pulls her hand back.

“Yeah. Yeah, you can. Gentle.” He can do that. He can be gentle.

He starts by letting the tip of his tongue continue up onto the point of her clit and then starting again, long soft strokes, until she’s starting to rock her hips and he’s sure she can take more. He keeps it light, resists the urge to roll her clit under the flat of his tongue and instead just teases it. She’s close—really close, he thinks, her thighs tightening around him now, boxing him in. “C’mon, c’mon,” she gasps, and he risks it, starts lapping as softly as he can at just the tip of her clit. 

“Fuck, Jon—” Emily’s high-pitched, the way she always gets when she’s close. “That’s—yes, _yes_, yes yes yes yes,” drawing the words out. He doesn’t let himself speed up or increase pressure or do anything that might throw her off, digging his nails into his thigh to remind himself to focus and be careful. Eating Emily out is like meditation, sometimes; it’s like worship. 

Her thighs tighten around his head again, shaking now, and he stops moving at all, tongue just barely resting on her clit as she shivers and comes. She pushes towards him and away, and now she’s the only one controlling how much she can take, how much touching she can stand. 

Emily pulls away from him entirely after a few long seconds, body going limp and thighs freeing him, and he stands up on weak knees to kiss her bare lower belly and then her throat and then the corner of her mouth. “Hi, baby,” he says, grinning down at her. She’s so gorgeous like this: red-faced and sweat-shiny and hair everywhere. 

“Hi, unsubtle boy,” she says back, reaching down to grab his dick. “Suppose I say you should go jerk off in the shower?”

He tries the puppy eyes again. Can’t hurt. 

“Uh-huh,” she says, grinning at him and squeezing his cock. “I know I said I was gonna ride you but I’m tired now and I think you should do all the work.”

“Deal,” he tells her, already reaching for a pillow to put under her hips as she gets her elbows under herself and wriggles backwards into the middle of the bed. 

She’s still wearing her dress, and there’s something desperately hot about that. There’s something desperately hot about everything right now, maybe, because Jon’s just that fucking desperate. 

He slides the pillow under her, both of them helping lift her up for it, and Emily smiles and crooks her finger at him. “Let’s call this part of your thanks as well, babe. You’re gonna give it to me just right, right?”

“Right,” Jon agrees, fervent, wanting to show her. He gets in close enough to rub the head of his cock gently up and down her pussy, and he can’t keep back a noise at how fucking good she feels, slick and soft. “God, you’re so hot, Em.”

She looks smug, but mostly just like she wants him to get on with it, so he leans in a little, just enough to make her lips part and her eyelids flutter. “Yeah, that’s the stuff,” she murmurs, and kicks a leg around behind him. “I may not have mentioned this before, but I really love your dick.”

“Maybe once or twice,” he says, fighting a laugh. They’ve had this exact exchange once or twice, too, or maybe about four hundred times, but he never gets tired of it. “It really loves you, too.” He pushes in a little more, focusing down on the feel of her around him, on the promise of more. 

Emily’s smile turns suddenly predatory, but she moves fast enough that it’s no kind of warning for the way she’s reaching around him and digging her nails right into his sore ass. “Jesus,” he yelps, and slams forward, sinking all the way into her. He’s pretty sure that’s what she was going for, but either way, she’s gasping and delighted, wrapping her leg higher around him to keep him close. 

That’s almost more than he can take, the combination of flaring pleasure-pain where her nails are scratching him and the soft warm squeeze of her around his cock. He breathes in place for a moment, braced on his arms, and only when he’s gotten himself back in check a little does he start a slow rhythm. 

“That’s it, baby,” Emily tells him, scratching harder. “You’ve been so good today. Do you feel better?”

Jon feels like he’s flying. “Yes,” he tells her. His voice sounds gritty in his ears. “Yes, I feel so good, thank you.” 

Emily squirms, rolling her hips up into him. “So do I. God. Little faster now. You want me to—you want me to tell you how you’re forgiven, baby? You want to,” she pauses, catching her breath, squeezing down on him. “Fucking—god, that’s it. You want, uh, you want—I’m losing brainpower here, tell me what you want.”

He feels forgiven already, cleansed. Light and free. “Just want to make you come,” he tells her, and she giggles. It’s a soft, hazy giggle, the kind she gets when they smoke up with Tommy and Hanna. The kind she gets when she’s happy and relaxed. “I love you so much,” he murmurs, leaning in to press the words to the warm skin of her throat. “I’m so lucky.” 

“You’re so coherent,” Emily counters. “I love you too, baby.” She digs her fingers into him anew where her grip had softened, and he groans, losing rhythm. “Not so—coherent now, huh?”

He isn’t. He isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t. He’s just a bundle of nerves and skin and she smells like heaven when his face is tucked in her neck. He wants to touch her, but he wants to stay balanced more, so he kisses her collarbone instead, curls down to nuzzle at one nipple through her dress. 

Emily rolls her chest up towards him, encouraging, and he tries to split his focus as well as he can, thrusting smoothly into her and scraping his teeth over her nipple until she whines. Everything else is gone from his head except how good he feels all over, and how good he wants Emily to feel. 

“Oh—oh, yes, yes, that’s, Jon—” Emily’s talking again, and he knows that tone and those words. A hand comes off his ass and slides between them, and Emily freezes in place. He knows that freeze so well: she’s focusing her whole body on just the feel of his cock, and his teeth, and her fingertip barely touching her clit. 

He can’t help with her focus, but he can give her a little more. He tilts his hips in, trying to get the angle she always wants, and frees one of his hands long enough to tug her dress down and one breast up and out of it. His mouth on her bare skin gets her gasping for air, muscles shaking with effort. “Jon, Jon, yes—” He sucks her nipple up between his teeth, and her hand shivers between them, his first clue that she’s coming before he feels the way her pussy clenches down around him, the way her legs grab at him. 

He fucks her through it, keeping up the same rhythm and angle until she sighs and relaxes, dropping her feet to the bed. “God, you’re good at that.” 

Jon can’t pretend that doesn’t get him closer, her telling him he’s good at fucking her. He can’t pretend it doesn’t make him focus on readjusting, on thinking about the things she’s told him she likes after she’s come: harder, lower, not continuing for too long. He isn’t going to have “too long” in him, so that’s no trouble at all. 

Emily’s hands had dropped off his ass but she brings them back now, scratching, taking advantage of the way her warm-up spanking had covered the more sexy-sensitive regions closer to his inner thighs. He’s not as sore there, but it’s not nothing—not nothing at all, Jesus, when she really scrapes her nails across his skin. Jesus, _Jesus_, that’s so good, that’s so fucking good. He tells her, or tries to, words not quite forming the way he wants them too, but he thinks she gets it, because she’s rocking her hips to meet him, too. She knows he’s close. She knows how fucking fantastic she’s making him feel. 

When he comes, it’s a whole wave of pleasure, the kind Emily says is normal for her, the kind that isn’t normal for Jon at all. It’s like his entire body is lit up momentarily with just—release, and softness, and—he doesn’t have a word for it, really. He just breathes through it, hips still driving into Emily on pure muscle memory, and then his muscles loosen enough to let him sag towards her and slow to a stop. He locks his elbows and hangs, panting, forehead on Emily’s shoulder, cock still warm inside her.

“Good, uh. Good—” No, he still can’t make words come out of his mouth, but Emily seems to get it, petting his back and his shoulders.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Roll over now. Mandatory snuggle time.” 

Jon huffs a laugh and pulls out of her gently, manages to climb over her leg so he can flop down onto the bed. He curls around her, face pressed into her collarbone and arm around her waist, knees tucked under hers. Emily spares a moment to tuck herself back into her dress, pulling the neck up and the skirt down, and he runs a hand down her side to cup her hip through the fabric. 

“I like this dress,” he tells her, which is at least a full sentence, even if it’s not a hundredth of what he wants to express. 

“I know,” she tells him, sounding somewhere between smug and sated.

Jon kisses the point of her collarbone. “Thank you.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure,” Emily says. “You feel better?”

He’s sure she asked him that already. He’s also sure she deserves to hear it again. “So much better. You make me feel so good, Em. Like—inside and out.” 

“Me, too,” she murmurs, twisting around to kiss his mouth once and then relax facing him, nose in his hair. “Inside and out, baby. I love you.” 

“Even with the twitter fights?” he asks, mostly kidding. Almost totally kidding.

“Even with the twitter fights,” she sighs. “Which I think I’m actually incentivizing, so.”

He leans up and kisses her again. “We could change the rule. We could—anything you want.”

Emily puts an arm over his and tugs him in tighter against her. “No, it’s good. It works for me that I do really hate when you get in those stupid fights. Really helps me, you know, whale on you.” He laughs, and she grins down at him, blurry at this distance. “However, I do think you probably owe me a back massage now that I’ve worn my arm out.”

“I thought that was what the, uh, cunnilingus was for,” he tries. 

He knows what she’ll say before she even starts. “I think we both know that you love it,” she tells him, with a sex-drenched tone in her voice that makes him shiver. “I think we both know you’d beg to go down on me if I didn’t tell you to. Don’t we?”

“We do, we definitely do,” he agrees. “I officially owe you a back massage.”

“And a foot rub for arguing.”

He laughs and kisses her. “Anything you want, babe. I’m yours.”


End file.
